Craig's a Demon
by feryvancy
Summary: But, of course, I'm no angel.


**AN: **This is just a one-shot that's been bouncing around my skull for awhile and has just gathered up enough matter to deserve to be typed up. So here it is. I took some liberties in some areas, obviously. There's bound to be a few spelling/grammar errors, and I shall definitely get around to fixing those… later. Rating for content, slash only if you want to see it.

… …

Craig is a bad person. Craig kills people.

Craig recently got caught killing people.

He wasn't physically caught in the act, but apparently they had enough evidence that they could arrest him, and in a town as small and superstitious as South Park that's all that's necessary. He is seen guilty in the public eye.

So Craig is public enemy number one. Everyone is joining together with their hatred of him, how sick he is, how they all had always felt something _off _with him. They're lying, of course. They mistake their lack of surprise for always knowing that Craig was this way. None of them had given a flying a fuck about Craig until he was arrested.

None of them had given a fuck about _me_ until Craig was arrested.

It was not unknown that me and Craig are close. That we live together. That we're the evil twin version of Stan and Kyle. Well, _we_ were. I was always considered harmless.

People are wondering if I had known. If I had always known. If I had helped. But then all their qualms boil down to one thing- "It's _Tweek_." They think that he was abusing me, using me, manipulating me. They believe I'm on the victim's side of things.

I am fragile. I am quiet. I hide behind Craig, the psychotic bastard that people had always avoided as much as possible. I am very, very weak.

This is the person I'm supposed to put forward. No one is to know me like Craig does.

I am just as bad as Craig.

Because I had always known about Craig and his… _darker _ways. After all, I'm the person Craig came running to after he murdered his sister's kitten with a shovel. It scratched him, so he smashed it like a bug. A large, messy bug. And he didn't feel guilty. He wanted to know if he was a monster.

I told him no, because that's what he needed to hear then, and helped him pose the kitten so that it looked like it got ran over.

I've helped him. I've always helped. He keeps me in the background, but I'm there. I see it. I know it. I've bought him new hammers and wiped them down. I've burned shirts of his that he didn't see the splatters on. Made sure that he stayed sane and healthy.

As feeble as I am, I'm not harmless, not delicate. Delicate is a word that's been thrown around about me a lot since Craig got arrested. My poor mind, my poor body, my poor soul. All of it is so _delicate_, and that _beast_ Craig threatened to break the precious.

They wouldn't think I was so harmless if they knew just how intertwined I am with Craig's business. If they understood how _deep_ we're tied together. If they knew that I hurt each of our poor bastards as much as Craig does. Just because I don't swing the ax doesn't mean shit.

I honestly don't know why anyone in this town cares. Death is far from a rarity. Monsters live under our children's beds. Why everyone is so disgusted in _this_ killing monster _this_ time goes over my head.

Maybe it's just because it's a fantastic story. The twenty year-old demon whose killed a countless amount of "loved" people and the poor nineteen year-old child he's certainly corrupted and hurt beyond imagination- the tragedy.

People keep trying to help me. I put on my best wide-eyed pathetic look and tell them Craig will take care of it when he gets back. Craig always helps. He always knows what to do.

I always get this pitied look after I say this. Free stuff usually ends up in my arms.

Craig says that if I played that hard enough they'd never charge me, even if they found proof I was involved, because everyone would scream _Stockholm's_.

People see the coldness in Craig's eyes. They're too clear, you can see right into his empty soul through them. Mine are too dark. They seem warm, though.

No one can see the coldness in my eyes… or the heat.

I'm angry. I'm always angry. It _boils_ in me. It burns through my veins and tweaks my muscles and melts my brain.

It's illogical. It's unreasonable. There's no childhood trauma to pin it on.

It burns me alive.

It's always been this way.

I used to worry about people seeing this part of me. That's why people get happy pills, right? I don't want those. I like this part of me. It makes me feel dangerous. Stronger. It's a sort of high, really. Even as it kills me and tears me apart, I feel like I'd be wholly incomplete without it. I was born this way, and what you're born with is what you're supposed to be proud of, right?

I stayed on the outs in school for a long time. I don't really remember much of that time- it was awhile ago- but I remember being miserable. Fever licked at my brain and it couldn't burn out.

The day I fought Craig was the best day of my life, and I remember it clearly. Stan and those guys were bored, which is never a good thing. I usually start to hide when they get that way. They found me anyway, and when they said Craig wanted to fight me a zap of _excitement_ lurched through me.

We fought. It was the best feeling in the world. My anger with everything was up and out through my fists, and _finally _someone could hurt from it. Of course, Craig could hold his own. Somehow, that just made it all the better.

I could feel the grin on my face.

We were both too distracted to see anything the first time, too ecstatic. But then some idiot put us in the same room in the hospital, and we couldn't deny the temptation to feel that rush again. The joy of feeling our anger brought to the surface.

Craig stopped us. He saw something in my eyes that no one has seen before. Something he saw every day he bothered to look into the mirror. I saw it in his, too, and it was that moment that I knew we were going to be _something. _Something fantastic.

"Hi," he had said.

"Hey," I'd replied.

"I don't give a shit about the world."

"Me neither. Where have you been all my life?" I cooed, because I've always been a sucker for cliché sayings.

In all honestly, that's the biggest difference between us. He doesn't care about the world. I actively hate it. It's really quite ironic that he's the killer out of us.

Craig's ice. The way he is freezes him. Maybe that's how Craig and I work- I melt him and he puts my fire out.

What? I told you I love clichés.

We've been together for eleven years, I guess. It's bizarre, really. Neither of us are fans of loyalty. Caring about people is not our forte. No one. We are uncaring people.

"He doesn't care about you Tweek, he was using you. You gotta stop defending him," people have been telling me. I wouldn't say that they're wrong on the whole caring thing. I don't care about him either.

Not actively, anyway. We've grown on each other. In each other. We've intertwined to the point I'm not even sure where we separate. We know everything about each other. We might as well be one person. If it was suddenly necessary for people to morph together, I honestly doubt we'd have any problems.

We're the same goddamn people, only in different bodies. Different tics, different downers. Mine shoves coffee into my body. Craig's shoves knifes into people's backs. Occasionally it also makes him shove his dick into people.

I don't get that last one.

But it's Craig. Craig does what Craig does. It's my job to make sure he can.

Today I'm going to see Craig in jail. I get the same looks from the guards that I've gotten used to receiving 24/7 for the last two weeks or so. Since Craig got arrested. I assume that they've heard my poor story from their wives.

Craig comes out completely chained up in his prison-worthy (oh, wait, that's right,) jumpsuit. Just like he was last time I saw him, yesterday. We're in an interrogation room, and I know that there are probably a few cops waiting just outside that window.

"Hey," we say at the same time.

"Jinx. Get me the fuck out of here," he said, offering up a crooked grin. His eyes are darker than they used to be. Annoyed. He doesn't want to be in here.

"I would if I could, bro." I'm not a fan of having to drive for an hour just to get here to only be able to spend fifteen minutes with him. I'll still do it, but that doesn't mean I have to be a fan of it.

"So, you get to listen to the radio in here?" _Are they listening to us right now?_

"Yeah. All the time." _No way can we talk for real in here._

I sigh. "Probably nothing good, though, right?"

"True that. Most of the time I just watch the TV, though." _Keep your act up._

"Me, too. I miss you. I can't do anything but watch the go-" I receive a harsh look," Gosh darn TV all day. " _I am. I hate this acting bullshit._

_ "_What would you be watching right now? But I know you. Probably what everyone else is watching. " _You're not acting right now. Don't drop it. People are watching. _

"Yeah, you're right." Neither of us talk after that. We only have so much code set up, and there's nothing for us to talk about in front of an audience. We don't generally need to talk much, though. Like I said, we've grown in each other. Our minds are one.

There is, actually, an idea floating around my head that I want to talk to him about, but not here. I can only hope that when his bail is set his parents meet it, and we can talk then. If not, I'll just go through with it anyway.

Indeed, he doesn't get bail. I go through with my plan.

I crack, quite publically. In the police station, to be precise.

"You can't do this to him! I did it! He's covering for me, please, just please, let him out! He didn't do anything, he was just trying to protect me. Please…" Rambles of that sort, really.

Of course, they don't believe me until they get me into an interrogation room. After giving me some coffee and a blanket, they ask me what I was talking about. "I did it. Killed all those people. He was just trying to protect me, like he always does. He doesn't think I can handle jail…" I start bawling again, right on time.

They don't believe me. They don't believe me until I tell each of them, in detail, about each of the murders. Details that even Craig forgot about. People that he forgot about.

He likes bragging, or at the very least retelling. I remember each narrative he told me.

Their faces when they arrest me… they're so grim it makes my heart soar to know I'm such an accomplished liar. I'm Henry fucking Rollins.

Craig, try as he might, couldn't get himself arrested again in my place. The police in this town are pathetic. They don't consider that I'm lying. No, not little Tweek. Tweek's mind is very delicate. He is not conniving bastard. Tweek is just a little sick.

Craig is not happy at me. Not even a little bit. I can feel it from miles away.

Only from miles away, though. He doesn't visit. He isn't at the court hearings. He doesn't write. He doesn't do anything but send angry waves at me.

I plea insanity. Court takes three days. It takes the jury ten minutes to decide I'm guilty. The judge sends me to the crazy house. I'll be doped up for a few months, bullshit my way through therepy, and then I'll be back with Craig.

Who still hasn't visited.

He doesn't visit the home either.

It was easier than I thought it'd be to get out. It takes me four months. I'm in a minimum security psych ward for four fucking months for allegedly killing sixteen people.

Gotta love the justice system. Anyone who had ever been mad about being pitied had obviously never played that game.

Getting out is simple. I "take" my meds, dance to the tune of a damaged psyche (step forward, two steps back, bound forward, steps back… you know the tune,) promise to have nothing to do with Craig, staying with my parents.

Parent, actually. My mother died a few years ago.

And yes, she _died_. Craig had nothing to do with it. Although he had offered.

After her death, half of the town's female population stepped up to fill in that role.

Including my shrink. Small word.

So, on the day of my release, I call Butters to pick me up. Butters understands evil boyfriends.

We make small talk on the ride back. Cartman's planning on enslaving all Triple Js, and Butters' poor ass has been paying for the frustration that said plan brings. I ask about Craig. Butters says that he's been sticking to himself in our apartment.

"He still there?" Butters nods. "Good."

I find Craig passed out on the couch with a bottle of beer in his hand. It makes me smile. Craig only drinks when he's stressed, and Craig doesn't stress much.

I sit on him to ensure that Craig can't escape. He's not even completely awake when he says, "Get the fuck out." I have no doubt that he means it, and he means it at me. I ignore him.

"You didn't visit. I drove two hours every day for, like, a month-"

"Half a month."

"Whatever. I haven't seen you in six months, and I come home to find my roommate skanking of beer and seeming oh, so _not_ thrilled to see me. I'm almost insulted, Craig."

His eyes finally crack open. They're red and hazy, looking almost human. Craig looks like shit. "I'm not your roommate anymore." I know every word that's about to pour out of his mouth before it does.

"Oh, _shut up. _You can't survive in this world without me. And if you were really planning on leaving me, you would have upped and left already."

He just observes me for a minute. "I thought you'd be locked up for longer. I forgot how smart you are." I smile down at him. His eyes spark with amusement for second before icing over again. "That was a stupid, shitty move you made."

"Well, it worked."

He sighs at me. "Tweek…" I slouch and lay down on him, head on his shoulder.

"It'd probably be a good idea to move soon. You're gonna be jonesing soon, and the killer in this town has already been caught. People are gonna get suspicious soon."

I feel his sigh vibrate on my chin. "Yeah…"

"Maybe we'll move to a big, bad city where no one notices if a few bodies drop off the face of the Earth," I muse.

"Mhm."

"Just you and me, for the rest of our lives."

He sighs again. It's his favorite form of expressing himself. "You and the clichés. But yeah, that sounds about right."

And then we'll fuck around together in hell, because neither of us belong in heaven.

… …

**AN 2.0: **Yeah, not my best piece of work, but I needed to get this out of my head. Please review and share your thoughts! And then go read Burr and share your thoughts there XD


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